


Let It Out So It Can Breathe

by notlucy



Series: MCU Kink Bingo - NotLucy [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky is Bad at His Job, Hand Jobs, Humor, Lapdance, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Steve's fine with that, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 07:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17463311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Going to a strip club is a bad idea. Steve knows this. He ends up there anyway.





	Let It Out So It Can Breathe

The strip club is a bad idea. Steve knows it. Sharon knows it. Five of the six bridesmaids in the limo alongside them know it. But the sixth? Not so much. The sixth is the one who had insisted on the bachelorette weekend. Whose aunt has a house down the shore for them to stay in. Who found the all-male Magic Mike-esque revue and insisted it would be “so fun!”

It is not. It is the opposite of fun. But Steve's here all the same because he loves Sharon. Loves Sharon's fiancee, Sam. Loves the fact that Sharon had asked him to be her man-of-honor mere days after Sam's proposal.

Although, when he’d said yes, he hadn’t realized the scope of work or the expense, being as he didn’t need a dress or heels. How much could he be expected to do?

Answer: so much. So much to do. Twelve concurrent email chains with the other members of the wedding party. Shoes. Schedules. Endless photographs from dress fittings that didn’t even _involve_ him.

Then had come the planning of the bachelorette weekend. Things, as Yeats would say, fall apart. The center does not fucking hold.

Which is not _entirely_ fair. Mostly, he likes the other members of the party. He's not so cynical as to paint them all with the same broad brush. Of the six, five seem like lovely people. There's Peggy, Sharon's cousin from England, who flew in just for the weekend and would be flying in again for the wedding. Then there's Okoye and Natasha, Sharon's friends from the government job she can't tell Steve about. They both appear as chagrined as Steve about the entire strip club affair. Pepper and Maria round out the acceptable five—college friends of Steve and Sharon both. Hanging out with them is always a pleasure, and he likes them nearly as much as he likes Sharon.

However. There is also Lillian.

Lillian. The sixth bridesmaid.

Lillian, who begins every email with, "hey, ladies!" even though Steve is not.

Lillian, who has been Sharon’s friend since elementary school and isn’t shy about alluding to the fact that she thinks she ought to be the ‘of-honor’ in this particular wedding party.

Lillian, who hasn’t missed an opportunity to passive-aggressively snipe at Steve about this perceived slight at every opportunity.

Lillian, on whom Steve blames this whole ridiculous outing.

Five months ago, Lillian had made the initial suggestion of Nashville for Sharon’s bachelorette weekend. Steve pushed back, namely because he couldn’t afford it. Sharon had refused to do anything without Steve, and so they’d been at an impasse until Lillian proposed her aunt’s beach house in New Jersey.

Thus, it was decided: three days down the shore, including an excursion to Lillian's "so fun!" strip club. Because Lillian, who thinks Channing Tatum is "so sexy!" found rave reviews of the club online. Suspicious, Steve had fact-checked her and discovered that, actually, The Rear End (gross) was one of the more poorly reviewed clubs in Jersey, with one notable exception: the third Thursday of the month, every month.

Ladies night. When the boobs-and-straight-dudes give way to dick, and plenty of it. Or, well, the sanitized, socially acceptable version of dick that good ol’ Channing had ushered in with his popularizing of the form.

Judging by the number of cars in the gravel parking lot, ladies night is _exceedingly_ popular. That says something about the quality of the dancers or the desperation of the housewives. Steve suspects it's the latter as he looks around the limo and catches Sharon's eye.

“I’m sorry,” he mouths, thinking she probably should have gone boot-scooting down south without him.

Sharon, who is the most biddable person on the planet, shrugs, the garland of plastic penises around her neck swinging back and forth as she starts to slide down the seat. “Let’s roll, kids,” she says with a grin as the driver opens the door.

Steve catches her by the wrist while everyone else tumbles into the dimly lit lot. “Shar—“

“Steve?”

“You shoulda gone to Nashville.”

“Fuck off,” she laughs, slugging him on the shoulder. “I told you. It’s not a party if you’re not here.”

“This is seedy.”

“Yeah!” she agrees. “It’s fun!”

“You’re gonna get herpes in the bathroom.”

“Probably,” she says. “But we’ve seen worse. Remember Barney’s?”

Steve blanches. “In my defense—”

“There’s no defense for eating floor peanuts, Steve.”

“Okay, but I was drunk.”

“Come on,” she says, taking him by the hand and tottering onto the rough gravel in her too-high heels. “Smile! We’re gonna go ogle some barely-clad dicks!”

“They’re Jersey dicks, Shar.”

“Yeah, well, New York dicks aren’t in your budget,” she teases, kissing his cheek and marching him across the lot to catch up with everyone else.

Once inside, Steve is unsurprised to discover that The Rear End lives up to its name. Because it’s a shithole. A faint, smoky haze settles over everything like a fine sheen of sweat, and there’s a sickly sweet smell in the air, like something chemically fragrant covering something unseemly. Steve swallows hard as the door shuts behind them, wishing he could just get back in the car.

And, like, look: he’s not an asshole about sex work, nor is he above it—college hadn’t come cheap, and he’d done a few headless jerk sessions in front of a webcam for quick cash during undergrad—but this place just feels _gross_. Unloved and uncared for, with rickety tables and ripped upholstery on the seats.  

It really is busy for a Thursday, though, with tables of people talking over ugly techno music blaring through speakers in the ceiling. The clientele is ninety percent women, all of them chatting excitedly, eyes fixed on the stage while a couple harried waiters move back and forth. Said waiters are wearing nothing but black shorts and bow ties, and Steve is not above checking them out. One has a nice ass—kinda perky—which is more than he expected.

“We have a reservation!” Lillian chirps, steering their group towards a padded low-backed bench situated next to the main stage. There’s a cheesy ‘VIP’ placard sitting in the center of the small adjoining table, and a few minutes after they sit down the nice-ass waiter takes their drink orders. Steve requests two shots of the cheapest whiskey they’ve got and proceeds to down them both, fortifying himself for what’s to come.  

Just after ten, a short guy with slicked-back black hair emerges from between the shiny curtains. Part emcee, part comedian, his job is to rile up the crowd with puns about packages that are soon to be delivered. Steve rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest, less-than-shocked when the first dancer comes out wearing a UPS outfit and holding a brown box over his groin.

His song is, literally, ‘Dick In A Box.’

“This is a _holiday_ song,” he complains to Sharon, who swats his thigh and tells him to lighten up.

The guy’s cute, albeit in a straight way. Kinda chubby, but Steve can get on board with a paunch, especially when accompanied by an ass that would undoubtedly look fantastic riding his dick. Which is an awful and objectifying mental image, but shit, it’s hard not to objectify when Mr. UPS is stripping down to a banana hammock and change, collecting dollar bills as he goes.

Next up is The Dog Walker, according to the emcee, who turns out to be a guy in a collar. That doesn't even make sense, but Steve guesses logic doesn't really play a part, mainly because he's dancing to ‘Who Let the Dogs Out.'

Jesus wept.

Puppy Play is followed by a priest who performs some uninspired penance to ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me.' Steve is unaccountably angry at his song choice. ‘Like A Prayer' is right _there_ , asshole.

Father Rethink-Your-Choices gives way to a fireman swinging a garden hose, then a besuited businessman in a clip-on tie who waves around a pair of handcuffs like it’s Fifty Shades of Who Gives a Fuck. All of them have terrible taste in music, are halfway attractive, and are decent-to-lousy dancers.

Yes. He is being a snob, but when Sharon gets to her feet so she can lean over and tuck a twenty into Christian Grey's g-string, Steve can't help but scowl.

“Oh, calm down, grumpy,” she says. “He’s adorable!”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t!”

“You’re just mad they’re not—”

Steve cuts her off when he hears the next song start, perking up in an instant. “Yes!”

“What?”

“Someone with some fucking class!”

The song is an incongruous choice for a male stripper, all things considered. Shakira’s amazing and Steve loves her, but ‘She-Wolf’ is out of place among the lineup of classic rock and novelty nonsense that has dominated the evening.

Curiosity piqued, he leans forward, a tiny bit interested in the dancer who chose her. Were this a drag show, he’d know what to expect—black bodysuit, maybe, or something shimmery with a lot of fringe. What he gets instead are combat boots, olive green cargo pants, and a black tank top painted on God’s perfect body. The guy’s stubbled and swaggering like he doesn’t give a fuck about the assembled onlookers, strutting from behind the curtains with a domino mask covering his eyes and, hilariously, a cheap-looking pair of furry ears on his head of tousled brown hair. 

Shakira’s warbling about being a She-Wolf in disguise by the time dude gets to the pole, which he grabs with one hand, swinging around it so Steve can see the muscles in his arm flex.

And that? That is just _exceedingly_ fucking attractive.

Except, alright, objectively? Dude’s not a very good dancer. Father Rethink-Your-Choices was way better, while She-Wolf is coasting on his bulky shoulders and thick thighs, swinging himself around the pole a few more times before gripping it with both hands and leaning back, spine forming a perfect arch as he surveys the crowd from an upside-down position.

Steve’s penis thinks, _I wonder what it’d feel like to fuck his face that way?_ His human-decency brain, meanwhile, is so overwhelmed with guilt at the thought that he stands up and sticks his hand in his pocket to grab a twenty.

She-Wolf or He-Wolf or whatever the fuck wolf notices the money and rights himself, ambling over to their table, where he pops a squat and reaches out for the cash.

“Steve,” Sharon hisses as She-Wolf walks away without so much as an acknowledgment. “You should have waited until he took his shirt off!”

“Huh?” Steve says, blinking.

Oh. Right.

The dude’s supreme lack of talent continues to manifest itself as he lackadaisically whips off his top. This knocks the dumb ears off his head, but who cares? With abs like that, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. Because, like, no offense to the fine New Jersey gentlemen of earlier in the evening, but _shit_. Steve nearly comes in his pants when She-Wolf pops his pecs—literally _flexes_ them, one at a time. He’s not the only one—the decibel level in the room goes up about ten fold as everyone in it scrambles for their wallets.

Fuck, though, She-Wolf has perfect nipples. Pink and pert and, God, what Steve wouldn’t do with those nipples, given the opportunity. If he’d met the guy in oh, say, a bar. Like a normal person. Where he could flirt and tease and take him home. Lay him down and lave attention on those pretty tits for hours and—

 _Get ahold of yourself, Rogers_.

He's not in a bar. There's no interest to be had because this is dude's _job_. A fact that is driven home when She-Wolf's cargo pants turn out to be tearaways, and he rips them off during the second-to-last chorus. The money's coming in droves now, dollar bills tossed onto the stage while larger amounts are held high in the air. Steve watches in horror as one woman tucks a twenty into the waistband of She-Wolf's g-string before giving his ass a slap like he's a piece of meat that needs tenderizing.

What the _fuck_?

She-Wolf’s face goes blank. He moves away from the woman without giving her a second look and begins gathering his clothes and the scattered dollar bills before disappearing behind the curtain as the song comes to an end.

“Wow,” Pepper says. “I don’t see them topping that.”

“He was barely on the beat!” Peggy protests.

“Eh,” Natasha says, reaching for her drink. “I still think the fireman was the worst dancer.”

“No,” Okoye replies with an emphatic shake of her head. “The dog was terrible.”

That devolves into a debate on the artistic merits of the performances until Sharon ends it by informing them that she's "gotta piss."

“By all means,” Steve says, swinging his legs to the side so she can make her escape. She’s not missing much—the dude onstage is supposed to be a surfer, maybe? He’s got sunglasses and board shorts, anyway.

It’s more than ten minutes before Sharon returns, and when she sits down, she has a _look_ on her face.

Steve knows that look.

“What?”

“Um.” She smiles. “I did something.”

“Shar,” he says, a warning in his tone.

“You liked that dancer, right? The wolf?”

“ _Shar_.”

“But you did, right?”

“What did you do?”

“I uh. Bought you a lap dance.”

“Sharon!”

“Hear me out!” she says, holding both hands up. “You and I both know he’s gotta be a little bit gay, right?”

“That…no, we don’t!”

“He danced to Shakira! Old Shakira! He’s—”

“That’s stereotyping.”

“Yeah, but I’m right.”

“Oh my God.”

“Anyway, I asked. He’ll do private dances with men and women, doesn’t matter. And you’re not having any fun out here. So like…go do the flirty Steve thing.”

He can feel his cheeks getting hot. “Sharon.”

“I’ll feel better if I think you’re enjoying yourself, buddy.”

Ouch. But also: fair. He’s been a Debbie Downer all night, and it’s supposed to be for her. “Am I ruining your party?”

“No,” she says, then pauses. “Maybe. Can you just go and enjoy yourself with a cute guy for twenty minutes?”

He sighs. “Fine.”

“I promise we’ll go when you come back. Get all that booze at the beach house.”

That makes him smile. “Deal.” 

“Perfect. Now go.”

So, Steve goes, feeling as though every eye in the room is on him as he makes his way to the doorway that’s adorned with a 70’s-style beaded curtain. The sign above it reads ‘Private Suits’ complete with typo.

There’s a bouncer, who takes Steve’s name and gives him a room number before sending him back. The ‘suits,’ turns out, are no nicer than the rest of the joint. Upon opening the door, he finds a cracked black faux-leather couch, along with a small end table that holds a box of Kleenex (ew!) with a trash can underneath. Three of the walls are lined with mirrors, though two have disconcertingly large cracks splintering through them. The only other thing in the room is a stereo that looks like it came straight from 1997.

Oh, and the pole. Can’t forget about the pole.

Steve sits on the couch and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, pulling his phone out to idly flip through some apps, not really focusing on any of it. Mostly, he feels weird. Kind of nervous, to tell the truth. It’s not like he’s done this before.

After maybe two minutes, the door opens and She-Wolf steps inside, wearing the same clothes he’d just stripped out of. He stops short when he sees Steve, though, and Steve wonders if maybe Sharon had gotten it wrong. Maybe this guy’s about to have a total fucking gay panic over Steve being on his sofa.

Nothing doing, though. She-Wolf blinks. Recovers. Shuts the door and nods to Steve from behind his mask.

“Hey,” he says. Jesus, his voice is sexy—a little raspy, which is Steve’s favorite sort of voice.

“Hi,” Steve replies.

“No phones, alright?”

“Oh, sorry,” he says, fumbling to clicking it off and put it back in his pocket. “My friend bought you. Um, I mean. Not you. This. The dance. Fuck.”

She-Wolf gives him a tight smile and goes to the stereo, crouching down so Steve can see the curve of his ass as the material tightens across it. Christ, he wishes he could turn his brain off. There’s nothing sexy about this, really, save for the fact that in any other context, this dude would be his type through and through.

“It’s cool,” She-Wolf says, “so you got a preference?”

“Huh?”

“Music. Some people like particular songs, and I got a bunch on my phone—”

“No,” Steve says. “I uh. Whatever you want. The Shakira was good?”

“Yeah?” He looks over his shoulder and smiles, which gives Steve the strangest sense of deja vu. “You know how a lap dance works?”

“Kinda.” Steve shakes his head to clear the feeling. “You can touch me, but I can’t touch you?” Which is a line straight out of every stripper movie he’s ever seen, but maybe it’s cliche for a reason.

“Something like that,” She-Wolf says, getting to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. Steve doesn’t know where to look, so he averts his eyes.

"Don't get a lot of guys back here," he continues after a minute. "Keep your dick in your pants, alright?"

“Oh. Sure,” Steve says, kind of horrified that the request has a reason to exist.

“If you jizz, there’s Kleenex.”

“I mean…” Steve tries a smile, desperate to override his awkwardness with some semblance of the personality he thinks he used to have. Long ago. Before this particular mortification. “That’s assuming a lot on your part.”

She-Wolf laughs like he’s surprised he found that funny. “Hey, fuck off. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Steve.”

“Hi, Steve,” he says, pressing play before setting his phone atop the stereo as a Robyn song starts.

Dude has decent taste. Seriously.

She-Wolf steps closer, leans against the pole and sizes Steve up, face gone disconcertingly expressionless. Steve's smile fades, and he tries not to squirm under the scrutiny. Tries to seem unfazed, even as he wonders if it's possible to die of anticipatory anxiety. Then, all casual, She-Wolf starts to move.

Shit. He’s better in close quarters. Better with an audience of one. Or Steve’s just turned on. Probably it’s that. She-Wolf runs a hand over his torso, dragging his shirt with him as he goes. He wraps a leg around the pole, dropping low and sliding back up, then undulating his body against the metal in a way that makes Steve’s dick twitch against his thigh.

The room feels hotter. Steve’s pulse is pounding in his throat, his eyes drinking in She-Wolf’s body. His muscled shoulders. His arms. The rise and fall of his broad chest. The long line of his legs. Back to his face, where he finds a small smile waiting for him.

She-Wolf releases the pole and drops to his knees.

“Oh, fuck,” Steve says out loud like the pathetic creature he is, fingers gripping the slick pleather of the couch as She-Wolf inches closer, crossing the tiny space on his knees until he can put one hand on each of Steve’s thighs, spreading them wide and slotting himself in between.

Steve's mouth goes dry as She-Wolf grins, predatory, before nuzzling his cheek against Steve's denim-clad knee. There's sweat visible on his brow, and Steve is overwhelmed with the sudden desire to lick it from his skin. He licks his lips instead. She-Wolf follows the flick of his tongue and raises an eyebrow before using Steve's thighs for leverage, pushing himself up ass first, so he's bent at the waist, their faces inches apart.

Then, slowly, he straddles Steve's left leg. Steve makes a fairly embarrassing noise because his prick is fully hard now. Swollen against the same thigh where She-Wolf is pressed torturously close.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, sure his face is beet red.

She-Wolf shrugs before reaching down to tug off his shirt for the second time that evening. Naturally, his nipples are just as pert and perfect up close, only now Steve can appreciate the finer details. The smattering of chest hair. The constellation of flat moles beneath his left pec, arranged in a triangle.

Huh.

Steve blinks. Frowns. Turns his attention back to She-Wolf’s face.

Blue eyes.

Masked eyes.

 _Pretty_ goddamn eyes, though.

Dimpled chin.

A constellation of moles.

The Bermuda Triangle.

He’d called it the Bermuda Triangle.

Kids were weird.

Kids were…

Steve’s eyes go wide. “… _Bucky_?”

She-Wolf is up like a shot, scrambling away as if Steve had lit a match under his balls. He smacks into the pole, head-first, and Steve hears the _thwack_ of the impact and winces. Flailing like a panicked moth caught under a cloche, She-Wolf grabs his skull and howls.

“ _Fuck_!” he says, doubling over.

“Oh, shit,” Steve says, getting to his feet and reaching out. “Hey, it’s okay—”

“Don’t fucking _touch_ me.”

Steve takes a step back, calves hitting the couch. “I’m not touching you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” he says, straightening, eyes bright with tears from the pain.

“It’s…me? Steve. Rogers?”

Bucky’s eyes go wide, and his mouth falls open. “Fuck me,” he manages. “No fucking way.”

“Uh, hi,” Steve says, doing the dorkiest possible thing and _waving_ at him.

“Hi,” Bucky manages, mouth still hanging open as he takes his hand from his head and gestures at Steve, as if that might better express his bewilderment. “But you’re uh—”

“Not ninety pounds soaking wet?” he offers. “Yeah, well. Puberty. It’s been a long time, Buck.”

“It—” Bucky nods, just as the song switches over to ‘Feeling Myself’ and Steve can’t help laughing.

“Really?” he says.

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, and God, that’s just him all over.

Bucky turns off the music and pulls off his mask, which settles it. Steve doesn't know how he missed it before—this is absolutely, definitely, without-a-doubt Bucky. Grown-up, sure, but people have a way of doing that. Steve hasn't seen him in fifteen years, give or take. Not since the day they hugged goodbye on the stoop of Bucky's building—a couple of snot-nosed fourteen-year-olds, pretending to be tougher than they were about the fact that Bucky's dad had a new job in Indiana. Bucky had promised to write with his new address the moment they were settled.

Steve had never gotten a single letter.

He can’t bring himself to be angry about it now, not with Bucky standing right there. Longer and leaner, granted, baby fat having melted away into those abs, that ass, and an incredibly chiseled jaw. Still, Steve would know him anywhere, now that he knew what he was looking for.

“It’s good to see you, Buck,” he offers, hoping Bucky feels the same.

“Yeah.” Hard to tell, from that, and Steve frowns, watching as Bucky picks up his shirt, tugging on the fabric as if he’s contemplating whether or not he ought to put it back on. “Shit, siddown, would ya? Making me nervous.”

Steve sits. “I didn’t know you were uh—”

“What? Hocking my wares in this fine establishment?” Bucky says, deciding against the shirt as he contemplates his seating options. He chooses to settle cross-legged on the floor near Steve’s feet. Not as close as he could be, but not on the other side of the room, either.

“No! I mean back in New York. I didn’t realize—”

“Not in New York.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, rolling his eyes. “When’d you come home?”

“Been back couple years now.”

Damn if that doesn’t sting a little. “Wow.”

“I was in the army. Met someone there. Followed him here. Didn’t work out, but I stuck around.”

“Oh,” Steve says, trying not to sound hurt. “You didn’t think to look me up?”

Bucky shrugs. Picks at the carpet and flicks away a bit of lint. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“Bullshit.”

His shoulders stiffen. “I’m not exactly—” he gestures around the tiny mirrored room. “Nevermind. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“My uh. My friend’s getting married.”

"Ah," he says like he gets it. "Slumming it."

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did. That’s alright. The money’s good.”

“It’s only one night, though, right?” Steve doesn’t want to imply, but Bucky’s not actually a very good stripper. “Are there other—?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “I suck cock down the shipyard, too.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “What, really?!”

“No, you schmuck!” Bucky says and lets out a real laugh. “Christ, I work construction, asshole. This is strictly supplemental.”

“Oh.” Steve’s face has gone hot, and he scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m not judging.”

“You are, a little,” Bucky says. “Everyone does.”

“I’m not!”

“Eh.”

“I used to jerk off in college,” he blurts, which isn’t something he’s in the habit of telling strangers, even if those strangers had been his best friend, once upon a time.

“Congratulations,” Bucky says, a wry grin turning up the left side of his mouth.

“No, dick,” he says, rolling his eyes. “For money, I mean. Internet stuff. So, you know. I’m not being judgy.”

“Huh.” Bucky almost looks impressed. “Gay for pay, or—?”

Now it’s Steve turn to act incredulous, glancing around the room. “I mean, I’m _here,_ right?”

“Touche.” He hesitates. “Some ‘straight’ guys, though, they just want the experience.”

"Not me." Which seems like it needs clarification the moment he says it. "I mean, the experience was great. Just…I'm always gay, is all."

“Me, too.”

Steve figured, given the circumstances, but it’s still a shock to find out that the unrequited crush of all those years ago—his seemingly straight best friend—was queer, too. 

“Never woulda guessed it,” he offers. “You had all those girlfriends.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky smiles and scratches his stomach. “Pops is a prick, and kids are fuckers. Had to keep up appearances.”

“Sure,” Steve agrees.

Bucky extends one leg out, tucking the other against his thigh and leaning forward to stretch, all easy grace and a strange sort of beauty. "You never said so, back then."

“Guess I always knew, though.”

“All those shitty double dates I took you on.”

“Shit, yeah. I didn’t mind. I ah…kinda had a thing for you,” he admits, and it feels safe to say it now. (Christ, though, if he could go back in time and tell his twelve-year-old self about this, he’d never have believed it.)

“Really?” Bucky says, preening as he sits up, a grin on his face.

“ _Kinda_ ,” he reiterates.

“Huh.” Bucky taps him on the knee. “You look good, by the way. When’d all this happen?”

“Oh.” He glances down. “Growth spurt? Puberty? I dunno.” He isn’t huge, but he’s filled out in the intervening years, topping out at six feet with a decent amount of muscle honed through a rigorous gym routine.

“Like I said, it looks good on you,” Bucky says like he’s flirting, before starting to laugh. “Christ. Of all the gin joints in all the world, Steve—”

“Yeah, I…sorry. There’s not a lot of options when you wanna see naked guys.”

“Your friends must be classy as fuck.”

“Hey,” he says, suddenly defensive. “This was—”

“Blue collar tourism,” Bucky agrees. “I get it.”

He’s not wrong. Steve frowns and shifts his weight. “It’s my fault. They wanted to go out of town, but I couldn’t afford it, and one of the bridesmaids has access to a beach house and—”

“Steve,” Bucky says, cutting him off mid-apology. “You think I mind when women in dick hats and sashes show up to tip me in twenties?”

“I guess not.” He still feels the need to clarify, though. “Sharon—that’s the bride—she’s great. I don’t want you thinking she’s like that lady that uh…slapped you.”

“I don’t judge,” he says, making a meal of each word. “Got no business worrying about why anyone comes here.”

“Right,” Steve says. “Still. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For that woman—”

“Fuck her.”

“—and for freaking you out before.”

“Yeah, well,” he says. “Nobody’s called me Bucky since you.”

“Really?”

“It was your nickname for me.”

“Becca—” he protests, because he was sure it had come from Bucky’s sister originally.

“I’m just James now.”

“Oh. Do you want me to stop using it?”

“No.”

Steve smiles. “Alright.” 

“After we moved…” he trails off, then huffs out a laugh. “I used to think about you a lot.”

“You never sent me your address.”

“I know. I got no excuses except I missed you like hell, and I thought if I cut myself off, maybe I’d miss you less.”

“That’s lousy reasoning.”

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugs and looks down at his lap. “Wanna hear something dumb?”

“Always.”

“I kinda had a thing for you, too.”

“That’s dumb?”

“No!” he laughs. “I mean, maybe. But that’s not the dumb part.”

“What is?”

“I uh. When I’d jerk off, in Indiana? I used to sit on my hand until it fell asleep, and then I’d use it and pretend it was you.”

"No, you didn't," Steve says because that is both weird and flattering and he doesn't think he can deal with it.

“Hand to God,” Bucky laughs, looking at him from beneath those fucking eyelashes. “Though, if I’d known what you’d turn into—gotta update the spank bank, I guess.”

“Are you _flirting_ with me right now?”

“So what if I am?”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, though,” he laughs. “You got bigger hands these days.”

“Probably your cock’s the same size, though,” Steve retorts.

“Fuck you!”

“Nah,” he says. “I prefer being on top.”

Which is when Bucky gets a funny look on his face, coming off the ground in one swift movement. Suddenly Steve has a lapful of tall, dark, and smelling vaguely of baby oil. That’s a lot. To go from yelling to sullen to friendly to flirty and now this? Yes. It’s a lot. It’s fine! But he needs to process.

No time for processing, though, before Bucky kisses him, their mouths mashing together in a heated disaster. Steve's not expecting it, though maybe he should have been. Bucky's right in with his tongue, probing for cavities, so Steve exhales through his nose and tries to catch his bearings. It's easy enough to kiss back. To press his tongue to  Bucky's. To gentle the embrace. To wrap an arm around his oldest friend's waist while his opposite hand moves to pinch one of the nipples that's been taunting him all night long.

Bucky yelps and pulls away, his face harboring such a wounded expression that it makes Steve laugh.

“The fuck’d you do that for?” he growls.

“The fuck’d you kiss me for?” Steve counters.

“Wanted to.”

“Then I guess you got your answer.”

“Smartass.”

“So I’ve been told,” Steve agrees before doing it again, twisting his thumb and forefinger to watching Bucky squirm.

“Hurts,” he grumbles.

“Really?”

“Nah.”

“Good,” Steve says. Kisses him again, just because he can, biting down on his bottom lip before letting him go. “Want me to jerk you off for real?”

Bucky makes this strangled noise at the suggestion, low in his throat, and it’s maybe the best thing Steve has ever heard in his life. Which is why it’s so disappointing when he shakes his head and stammers, “uh, no.”

“Why not?” Steve replies, marginally wounded.

“Because…I gotta dance again.”

“So?”

“So I get better tips when I’m uh…you know. Enjoying things.”

“How’s about I give you a tip instead?” It’s lewd, but he can’t help rolling his hips.

Bucky laughs out loud, which goes a long way to dispelling any sexiness in the gesture. “No offense,” he says, so Steve knows something offensive is coming. “But your dick ain’t gonna tip me the way these soccer moms do.”

Steve jostles him for that, narrowing his eyes. “Bucky—”

“I could jerk you off instead.”

Nope. Steve takes an instant dislike to that notion. Doesn’t like the idea of it when he’s still, technically, on Bucky’s time. There’s something off about that, even if he doesn’t know quite what, so he shakes his head and deploys a pout.

“Oh, what?” Bucky says.

“Just makes me sad, is all,” he sighs. “Little Bucky and, yanno, _little_ Bucky. All those years spent beating your meat alone, and—”

“Oh, Christ. Spare me.”

Steve drops his hand to the crotch of Bucky’s tearaway pants. “Please, Buck.”

“Jesus,” Bucky grumbles, which is not the same thing as a no. All objections overridden, he shakes his head and tears at his false-front fatigues, exposing his ridiculous silver thong.

Yeah, that’s funny. There is no getting around the fact that that’s funny.

"Sorry," Steve says because now he's got the giggles.

“You’re such an asshole, still,” Bucky grumbles.

“It’s just,” he gestures, unable to convey quite how ridiculous he finds the shiny cock-cloth.

“Je- _sus_ ,” Bucky repeats, pushing the material out of the way and taking out his half-hard dick, which is a lot bigger than Steve remembers it being when they were thirteen and went skinny-dipping in Josh Horner’s parents’ pool.

“Gee.” Steve spits into his palm and takes Bucky in hand, priming the pump with a few firm strokes. “Thrilled you’re so happy to see me, pal—”

“God, you haven’t changed,” Bucky says and kisses him again.

Steve kisses back and begins to work him over, the slick sound of his hand on Bucky’s shaft filling the room. There isn’t much to it—hand jobs are perfunctory at the best of times, and in the rear room of a strip club on a Thursday night, it’s back to basics. A squeeze, a tease. A hand on Bucky’s ass, gripping his right cheek and circling a finger around his rim, just to see what he’ll do.

“Hey,” Bucky laughs, clenching down and grabbing Steve by the chin. “Uh-uh.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

“Yeah, you were.”

Steve grins. “Maybe. You don’t like it?”

“Like it fine, under the right circumstances.”

“Sure, pal,” Steve says. They got plenty of time to find the right circumstances on another occasion, he figures. For now, though, he slides his hand further down to play with Bucky’s balls instead.

That just about does it. Bucky lets out a muffled shout, hips jerking and juddering against Steve's fist. He whimpers, and he moans, body going tense like maybe it's been a while. Steve slows his pace, runs his thumb over the head of Bucky's cock, and tuts.

“Already?” he chides.

“Time’s fuckin’ up,” Bucky manages. “I gotta go back to work. Please, Steve?”

“Aw, alright,” he says and gets back to his own sort of work, stroking in earnest.

Bucky gives three short, panting breaths before he shoots, striping his stomach and Steve’s hand with his release. Steve coaxes him through it, drawing out every last drop until, maybe ten seconds later, Bucky shoves him away with a muttered, “fuck!”

"Better than sitting on your hand?" Steve asks primly. Part of him wants to lick Bucky's come from his fingers. Another part of him knows that it's a bad idea. They should both get tested before they see each other again, to be on the safe side.

He can’t wait. 

“Fuck off,” Bucky laughs, dick softening between his thighs as he extricates himself from Steve’s lap and grabs tissues for both of them.

Steve wipes the remnants of Bucky from his hand, conscious once again of the lead weight against his leg. Fuck, he’s so hard, though he tries not to show it as he reaches down to adjust himself.

Bucky notices, because of course he does, smiling as he tucks himself away and refastens his pants. “Aw,” he says. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees.

“I gotta get back, but you wanna stay back here a couple minutes, finish up?”

It's a tempting offer, but he's not sure he can get off alone back here, despite the positive connotations. "Nah," he says, going for casual and ending up brusque. "We gotta get going."

Bucky’s face shutters so fast it’s like he’s closing up shop. “Oh.”

Shit. “I just mean it’s late, and there’s a spa thing tomorrow—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, grabbing his shirt and his mask. “You guys aren’t…” he trails off and frowns like he’s just remembered something unpleasant, biting at his kiss-reddened lips.

“Can I get your number, though?” Steve asks, which he really should have led with. “We could go out,” he continues. “Get dinner. Catch up.”

“No,” Bucky says, voice soft.

“What?” Steve’s sure he misheard.

“I said no,” he repeats, not so quiet the second time around.

Steve’s smile fades. “Bucky, c’mon—”

“You don’t want my number, Steve.”

“Uh, yes, I do. I just asked for it.”

“You don’t,” Bucky snaps, voice gone hard.

“Buck—” Steve gets to his feet. “Why the fuck not?”

“Because I said so,” he bites off before turning away. Christ. Steve doesn’t remember Bucky being cruel. Knows for a fact that he wasn’t. What happened to the kid who could charm the pants off everyone he ever met, while Steve rode along in his wake?

Steve isn’t sure, but it has to be something. Because that was then, and this is now, and people change. Even the best people.

“So…awesome, Bucky,” he spits, mouth twisting into something surly. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Let it be what it is,” Bucky says, hesitating a second before turning back to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Steve closes his eyes and thinks maybe Bucky’s not so far removed from his old self after all. “Those are some mixed messages, Barnes.”

"Yeah, well." Bucky's breath is warm on Steve's cheek, and then it's gone.

Steve watches him walk out the door without saying a word.

“Fuck,” he says once he’s alone. Part of him wants to go after Bucky, but he knows better. God knows Bucky probably has plenty of people crossing the lines he draws for himself.

Steve’s not that guy.

He takes a minute to compose himself instead. Punches the couch twice because he thinks it’ll make him feel better. Leaves the room and returns to his friends with a frown on his face.

“How was it?” Sharon shouts over the sound of ‘Achy Breaky Heart.’ (Mr. UPS is onstage again, only now he’s wearing chaps and twisting a cheap-looking lasso over his head.)

“Fine. We going?”

“Sure,” she says, and if she knows something’s wrong, she’s kind enough not to draw anyone’s attention to it. They begin gathering purses and coats, figuring out who owes what and who has a tab open. Steve goes to the bar to close his, mulling things over while he waits for the receipt. In the end, he makes a choice. Maybe it’s a stupid choice, but he doesn’t think he can leave without knowing he’s tried.

The rest of the weekend is spent in a haze of alcohol, mud baths, massages, and other nonsense. By the time Steve gets home late on Sunday night, he’s very relaxed, but he’s also decided he never wants to see a mimosa again.

The next morning, he wakes to discover a text from an unfamiliar number. Two words sent at 2:14am.

 

> _U punk_.

 

Steve grins. Thank God for bartenders who believe in fate and second chances. (Also bartenders who are willing to pass along a phone number hastily scribbled on the back of a napkin.)

 

> _Said I couldn’t have your number. Never said I couldn’t give you mine. Dinner? Friday?_

 

Thirty seconds later, Bucky replies with a middle finger emoji.

Steve’s pretty sure that means he’s in.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! This fills my B4 "lapdance" square for MCU Kink Bingo. Title comes from Shakira's "[She-Wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=booKP974B0k)" because how could I use anything else? This story was one terrible notion away from being called "behave very bad in the arms of a boy," and I'm not sure I won't use that for something else. 
> 
> Thanks to [awwtopsy](https://awwtopsy.tumblr.com) for her quick and dirty beta work. You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


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